


Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

by pantsoflobster



Series: this is not the house that pain built [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fake Marriage, Fluff, M/M, post-159, pre-watcher's crown, scottish safehouse honeymoon, sitcom elements, they deserve a break ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoflobster/pseuds/pantsoflobster
Summary: “Jon,” Martin said. “I have made a grave mistake.”Jon whipped his head up, nearly tossing the elastic from his messy bun. “What? What’s wrong? What--what did you do?”“I... might have invited guests for dinner.”Jon stared blankly. “What, here?”“Seeing as this is where we live at the moment, yes.”---In which a week in the safehouse turns into a fake-married sitcom, because they deserve to worry about social ineptitude instead of the apocalypse for a minute
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: this is not the house that pain built [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683676
Comments: 91
Kudos: 1265





	Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Martin almost forgot to bring the shopping in from the car. The whole drive back from the village, he’d been turning the encounter over and over in his head, wondering how he’d let this happen and how in the world he was going to tell Jon. 

He stepped gingerly through the kitchen door and laid the canvas bag on the counter.

“I’m back,” he called, a bit sheepishly. 

“Hello,” came Jon’s voice from the tiny living room sofa, where Martin found him reading. 

He didn’t look up right away, trying to finish a page or a sentence before acknowledging Martin’s presence and becoming inevitably distracted. Usually Martin would wait, but this could not. 

“Jon,” he said. “I have made a grave mistake.”

Jon whipped his head up, nearly tossing the elastic from his messy bun. “What? What’s wrong? What--what did you do?”

Martin had to laugh at the somewhat disproportionate concern. “Oh--it’s nothing, you know, life-threatening. Well, it could--no. It’s fine. But I…”

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

He couldn’t look Jon in the eye as he said it and ended up peering at the rickety kitchen table and its two mismatched chairs. “I... might have invited guests for dinner.” 

Jon stared blankly. “What, here?” 

“Seeing as this is where we live at the moment, yes.” 

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“I don’t know! It was mostly an accident,” he said, and proceeded to explain the predicament. 

A week before, Martin had dragged Jon into the village simply to get him out of the house. He needed it. He was a little too content to stay inside day after day, reading whatever trash novels Daisy had left behind and the slightly better ones from the secondhand bookshop in town. Before picking up their groceries for the week, Martin diverted their path a bit farther down the main stretch of road to the singular teashop. 

“A proper date,” he’d said, not missing how the corner of Jon’s mouth briefly quirked upward at this. They shared a pot of something dark and laced with bergamot and lavender and a pair of soft scones. It was quite lovely all in all, even when Jon closed in on himself a bit as Martin, being polite, got to talking to a couple just a bit older who sat beside them.

Jamie and Alistair Grier had moved to the area seven or so years ago, shortly after marrying and deciding to commit to an idyllic life in a secluded highlands cottage. Martin began to sweat just a bit when something he said led Jamie to think they’d done the exact same. She was thrilled to have met newlyweds with such a common life path. 

“I’m so glad we met! What are the odds?” she chattered. 

It wasn’t worth spending the time correcting her, especially in lieu of a rational alternate explanation. But suddenly, they were being stronghanded into a firm dinner date at the Griers’ cottage the following evening. Alistair even drew a map on a napkin since they’d complained of the lack of service at their house, assuring they’d be able to find the place even without GPS. Jon, who hadn’t said much at all up until this point and was making a poorly-timed attempt at friendliness, pointed out that by the looks of it, they were practically neighbors.

“Hang on,” Alistair said. “I think I know just where you mean. We can see your place from our back window on a clear day!” 

“Is that so,” Martin said, praying these two were nothing more sinister than nosy neighbors. 

Despite their hemming and hawing, Jamie somehow coaxed a promise out of both of them to come round the next evening. 

“Were they…?” Martin asked as they walked on to the shop. _Is this a trap?_

“No,” Jon said, mildly incredulous. “I think they’re just overly friendly. Which is terrifying in its own right.”

The drive home was mostly silent, Martin turning over scenario after potential scenario and wondering if they should bail. 

As if reading his mind, Jon suddenly asked, “Do you think we should go?”

Martin sucked in a breath. “I don’t see a way out, quite frankly.”

“We _could_ just not show up,” Jon offered.

“But they know where we _live_ ,” Martin said. “The only thing worse than an awkward dinner with strangers would be having those strangers pop by in the morning to ask why we stood them up!”

He took Jon’s silence as a sign that he had not considered this potential fallout. 

“How do we tell them we’re not--well…” Jon spluttered. 

“We don’t have to. We can just…” 

“Lie?”

“I was going to phrase it as ‘playing the part,’ but yes, lie.” 

Jon frowned. “I’m not very good at frivolous lying.” 

“Well,” Martin said, “would you rather explain the truth?”

Jon took a moment before responding. “I’m actually less concerned about covering up the whole hiding-in-a-safehouse thing and more with the fact that--that… How can we pretend we didn’t just… Start this, well-- _us_ , less than a month ago?” 

This had in fact crossed Martin’s mind in his musings. “It’s not as if we just met,” he said, perhaps trying to sway himself as well. “I think we know each other well enough to pretend we’ve been married for one year.”

Silence returned as they pulled around the side of the house and parked. Before Jon could run off and escape into the kitchen door, Martin took his hand.

“Listen,” he said. “I know it’s a bit awkward but I also know that… I _know_ you’re thinking about what Peter said about us, and I just want to say that I think he was full of shit. About a lot of things.” 

Jon gave a sick, humorless laugh. “That’s--” 

“I know, I know, that’s rich coming from me. But I’m just saying, we’ve learned a lot in the last few weeks. And I think for one, we… We know each other better than we think. And,” he added. “I do love you.”

Jon let out a sigh, ran his thumb across Martin’s knuckles, and then pressed them to his lips. “And I love you.” 

“I think that’s a decent start, huh?”

At this, Jon did let a smile creep in. “A sturdy foundation for one night of harmless lying, at least.”

The cottage that Jamie and Alistair lived in was decidedly not a safehouse bequeathed by a monster hunter. The distinct differences included area rugs, matching dishware, a lack of peeling wallpaper, and furniture that looked no more than five years old. It was cozy in the most intentional manner, a sort of distilled quaintness only achievable by wielding a very comfortable amount of money. What else would allow a couple to just up and move to the middle of nowhere? 

Martin and Jon spent the meal asking more questions than answering, as they had planned to do for simplicity’s sake. They let Jamie go on about their housing search to find this place and Alistair told stories that innocently began with phrases like, “If you ever get to Thailand...” 

Despite the distinct difference in lifestyle, Jamie and Alistair were genuine people, and in turn, a genuine pair. Conversation eventually led to Jamie telling the story of their meeting and dating and marrying, which was horrendously cliche despite her enamoured telling. 

Martin kept stealing glances at Jon as she spoke, always to find him with his hands folded in front of his mouth, taking in each word like it was a fascinating study, not a love story. It was unclear whether this was Jon being Jon or if, perhaps, it was somehow scratching an unsteady itch, one they tried to manage with sparing statements sent from Basira. He wondered if a story so nice and freely given, untouched by fear of any kind, did anything at all for the Archivist or if it was something like empty calories. 

“So how did you two meet?” Alistair asked when a lull hit. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw Jon turn towards him in stammering deference. 

“We worked together,” Martin said simply. 

Jon managed to utter a supporting, “Yes.” 

“Jon was actually my boss,” Martin said, knowing full well going into any detail was risky territory. It earned a scandalous coo from Jamie, which only egged him on. He smirked and hazarded a sidelong glance at Jon. “I had a crush on him for quite a long time.”

Jon did not look back, but afforded an embarrassed smile. 

“And what is it you did for work before you ran away from the city life?” Alistair asked.

Another silence, the tension of which was only detectable to Martin and Jon. 

“Academia,” Jon supplied. Martin nodded. 

“At a university?” Jamie asked.

“No, no.” Jon said.

Martin set down his wine glass. His head was already a bit too swimmy to be spinning the truth on the spot. A moment passed before he realized Jon had absolutely no plans to elaborate on his response. 

“It was more of a... research kind of situation,” Martin said. 

“Ah, what kind?” Alistair asked. 

“Um-- psychology, sort of,” Martin said. “Rather dull stuff, though. Not worth explaining.” 

“Exciting enough to spark a workplace romance, though, huh?” Alistair said with a grin. 

Martin chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t-- it wasn’t quite like that.” 

“No?”

“I was… quite clueless for a while,” Jon said sheepishly. “A--a long while.” 

Martin heard the lack of humor in his admission. “But then,” he said, “I was… I was in a bad situation. And… Jon really tried to pull me out of it, and eventually he did.” He placed his hand on top of Jon’s on the table and patted it tenderly, as if it wasn’t as grave a tale as it actually was. 

The way Jon looked over at Martin could have easily given away that there was something up. He looked half floored to be commended and half ready to fight him on it. Jamie and Alistair were surely assuming this story was years old, not mere weeks, yet Jon’s reaction spoke of fresh, uncharted emotion. He patted Jon’s hand again. 

After dinner, they settled into the den for a cup of tea and Jamie nestled next to Alistair on their ample sofa. Martin had plopped down on the matching plush loveseat and let out a soft, “Oh!” when Jon followed him despite the open armchair across the way. It certainly would have afforded them both more room, but this wine-warmed, wiry man wedged his way into Martin’s side and laid a hand on his knee. 

He hadn’t expected Jon to willingly display much affection in front of others. He blamed the wine, but something also gave him an odd inkling. Jon was an observer. It was very well he might have looked at their gracious hosts, the portrait of marital bliss, and gleaned something about the part he was meant to be playing. Maybe he took them as an example of what one does with a spouse when you retire to the sitting room after dinner with company. You sit side by side and leave a hand as a gentle reminder you’re there. 

For a moment, Martin’s mind wandered to melancholy wishes, dreaming of nights like this in a far-off future with more familiar faces, safe and happy and free, in a living room he recognized. He shook his head to halt that train of thought before it populated the room with other faces he knew they would never see again. 

When it came time to part, they thanked their hosts and Martin found himself wondering how something he’d been somewhat dreading had come to an end so fast. 

“They’re so…” Jon began after Alistair closed the door behind them and they stepped out into the cool night.

“Nice,” Martin said.

“I was going to say normal, but yes,” Jon said. “Very nice.” 

Martin drove home, secretly smiling in the dark until he risked a glance over at Jon to find he was harboring a secret smile of his own. 

A bit later in bed, laying on his back beside Martin, Jon stared at the ceiling and said, “I could get used to this.” 

Then disaster struck. 

It was a week on from their dinner at the Griers’ when Jamie called his name in the shop from across the bin of oranges. Martin was truly quite pleased to bump into her. Running into a friend while selecting produce was such a modicum of normalcy, of domesticity and belonging. He thanked her again for such a lovely dinner. She said they should do it again. 

“We’d love to come see what kind of cozy little paradise you’re shaping up for yourselves over there!”

“Oh,” he’d said. “Yes, er--”

“I’ll text you and we’ll plan something?”

“We- we still don’t exactly have any reception all the way up there,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“That’s right, of course!,” she said. “Let’s just set a date now, then. Got anything on next Friday?” 

At this moment, Martin lost all grip on language and squeaked out the only word he could remember. Later, as he recounted to Jon, he realized this utterance was probably a distressed reaction to the thought rather than an answer to her question. 

“No!” 

“Lovely,” she powered on. “Sevenish work all right?” 

And he was already in too deep. “Sure!” 

“Fantastic. We’ll bring appetizers? See you then!” And with a kind, little wave, she was gone. Martin released his unintentional death grip on an innocent orange. 

An hour later, he was stood in front of Jon, punctuating the end of the woeful tale with frantic hands. Martin stared, awaiting his reaction. He didn’t quite expect the relieved sigh followed by a small chuckle. 

“You know,” Jon said. “For a moment, I felt almost as horrified by undesirable social interaction as I do of being hunted by monsters.” 

Martin let out a surprised laugh. “Feels sort of nice, doesn’t it?” 

“It sort of does,” Jon said. “So… It’s set in stone then?”

“I don’t know what else to do! They know where we live,” Martin wailed. 

Jon’s head fell. “That is wildly inconvenient.” 

Martin glanced around at their surroundings and imagined welcoming perfect Jamie and Alistair into their strange little abode. “We… They can’t see this place like this. They’ll think we’re murderers.”

“It’s hardly _our_ fault it has a particularly murdery atmosphere.” 

They had approximately thirty-two hours to make the place safe and suitable for public consumption. They started by making a list: Strategically hide questionable stains and tears on the sofa with blankets. Acquire two more dining chairs. Populate the kitchen with presentable dishware and cutlery. Select a menu and go shopping again, since Martin had left with the bare minimum after his run-in with Jamie. 

They could pass off some of the house’s odd features as symptomatic of a home in flux, as the Griers knew they had only moved in a few weeks ago. They’d have to play the fixer-upper angle quite hard to account for the broken bathroom tiles and strange notches in the wood floors. But all in all, the place was a garbage heap compared to the Griers’ rustic perfection. No amount of creative excuses or last-minute fixes would be able to conceal the difference. 

They spent the evening cleaning and trimming the space with what they had on hand, which included a five quid bottle of wine. Several hours in, Martin perched on the edge of the bathtub with said bottle for a momentary break. 

He took a swig and mused, “Might I propose a list of people who will never let us hear the end of this assuming we live to tell the tale?”

Jon continued scrubbing viciously at what he insisted was a years-old bloodstain on the linoleum. “Let me guess: Is it just a list of every woman we know?"

Martin considered this. “Hm. No, you’re right. That was the whole list, actually.”

The next morning, they went into town to compile some of the makings of a civilized home. They raided the secondhand shop for a decent set of serving dishes and some wine glasses. Jon also unearthed an old kettle in its taped up original box for only £6, an absolute thrill to Martin who had been fretting over the prospect of making tea for four in a pot on the stove. They pilfered through some decorative ephemera in an attempt to personalize the house and got to making stories about how these fictional, married versions of themselves would have come into possession of them through their very normal lives.

“I think,” Martin said, holding up an antique framed map of Europe, “that Married Jon had this on his wall in university to look smart and never got rid of it.” 

“Well, I think Married Martin stole this tea tin from his Nan,” Jon countered. 

“Ooh,” he said. “I would, though. It’s pretty. Give it here. I think Married Martin bought these mason jars from this shop last week, actually.” He set them in the basket beside the tea tin. 

“What about these?” Jon said, holding up a pair of vintage salt and pepper shakers shaped and painted like siamese cats. 

Martin choked a laugh. “Jon…” 

“What?”

“Those are _truly_ awful.”

“What?” Jon frowned at the things, one in each hand. “I thought they were… kind of cute.” 

“Jon, they are _absolutely not._ Married Martin made Married Jon throw those out the day they moved in together.”

“Fine,” Jon said. He set them back and muttered, “Better for Married Jon to have loved and lost cat salt shakers, I suppose.” 

They agreed to a lie-in on Friday morning to recover from their preparation marathon and to build up their strength for the evening to come. They stayed wrapped together in bed until well past noon, at which point Martin decided to get up and shower. When he came back, he found Jon standing in front of the tiny closet with crossed arms. 

“All right?” he asked. 

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to wear when you’re… hosting a dinner.” 

“Well, we’ve got limited options,” Martin said, surveying the sparse selection of clothes they’d grabbed from their flats the day they left London. “I know they’d be a bit big, but you’re welcome to look through whatever I’ve got.”

“Really?”

“I mean, yeah, of course. If you’re really stuck.” 

“Well… thank you,” Jon said. “I might.” 

As he moved behind Jon to get to the dresser, he slid a hand around the back of his neck and pulled his cheek close to kiss. Jon leaned into it and then muttered, “I think I’d better shower.”

Martin dressed and went to the kitchen to get his wits about him. Despite Jon’s protests that they should go with something simpler, Martin insisted on making a shepherd’s pie. It was the single impressive dish he’d mastered and quite frankly, hadn’t gotten a chance to make it for anyone in the last few years. It would take a few hours to prepare, so he got to chopping carrots, onions, potatoes, and celery.

Eventually, Jon emerged from the bedroom and Martin heard him stop at the entrance to the kitchen, so he turned from the cutting board to look. He was wearing his hair down, and by god, it looked brushed. He had on the nicest button down he’d brought along and the smallest of Martin’s cozy cardigans over top. It still swam on him but, over the shirt, made for a rather welcoming look for the host of a dinner party. 

“Well?” he said, “Do I look like husband material?” He drew the words out with thick, cautious sarcasm. 

Martin wiped his hands on the dish towel they’d bought yesterday and walked towards him, stopping just a step short. He took in the sight of the ridiculous little man he’d spent so much time pining over, thought of every cup of tea he’d ever left for him, barely acknowledged, while wearing that very cardigan. And now, here he was standing in a house where they suddenly shared a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, everything, wearing Martin’s clothes. “I’d marry you,” he said.

He meant to keep his tone playful, firmly in the same territory as their jokes in the thrift store, but Jon still spluttered a nervous laugh. He tried to recover by saying, “Yeah, well. Don’t forget that you did. Apparently.” 

Martin took Jon’s face in his hands and tipped it upwards to kiss him. It was comfortable, a quality of the odd air these weeks had been steeped in, quickly crystallizing into routine and regularity and the echoes of a life. Often moments like these were when the tendrils of something cold tapped at the edges of Martin's mind, whispering that he should doubt this. Too perfect, too easy. Too impossible, too breakable. 

He thought Jon must know. He wasn’t sure how much control he had over what he might accidentally come to know about Martin’s thoughts. He also wasn’t sure if he was simply imagining that when those insidious thoughts rolled in, Jon wrapped his arms around his neck tighter, wove a hand into his hair, and pressed their lips closer. 

When they broke apart, Jon asked, “Could I help with dinner?”

“Sure,” Martin said with a smile. 

They spent the next several hours moving around each other in the tiny kitchen, Martin keeping a watchful eye on whatever he tasked Jon with while focusing on his own work. Another thing the last month had taught Martin was that Jon’s cooking skills were on par with those of a first year university student. This was unsurprising and sometimes endearing, but too much was at stake tonight to leave Jon to his own devices. 

They put the pie in the oven with twenty minutes to spare. When a knock sounded on the door, just five minutes after seven, they looked at each other with matching wide-eyed expressions, a mix of excitement and anxiety. 

They welcomed the Griers in with loud, friendly hellos, ushering them into the living room. Martin’s eyes were on Jamie’s as she scanned the house, assessing her level of horror at the condition.

“Oh, it’s so cute,” she said, beaming about. “So cozy!” 

This kind of overstated pleasantry he could handle. At least she didn’t look like she wanted to run back out the door. 

“It’s in no state now,” Martin hurried to say. “We were a bit nervous to have you here. Lots to do before it’s ah… Ideal.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Jamie said, batting his concern away with her hands. “We know how it is. Should’ve seen our place when we got it!” 

“My god,” Alistair said, kicking at some of the notches in the floor. “What in the world do you think the previous owners did to this place?” 

“One can only imagine,” Jon deadpanned. 

Martin went to pull the shepherd’s pie out of the oven and Jamie followed him to peek at it.

“Oh my god, Alistair, would you look at this?” She waved her husband over and gestured to the dish. “Have you ever seen me make something that beautiful? It looks like it's from a magazine.” 

Alistair took a glance and punched Jon in the shoulder, knocking his small frame unsteady. “You are a lucky man, Jon.”

“Hah,” he huffed, steadying himself. “I--I believe I am.” 

Dinner began with the awkward shuffle of passing plates around the small table and serving. Their guests were sat on the two new chairs they’d found at the secondhand shop, a bit sturdier than the ones that had been in the house but equally mismatched. One day, maybe Martin would get to thank them for not mentioning the odd things they’d surely noticed. 

Jon didn’t eat much these days, and neither of them were sure how much that had to do with the Archivist’s strange needs. Jon had never eaten much as long as Martin had known him, but these days it was even less. Tonight, however, he noticed Jon took a rather average portion for himself, certainly measured after what he saw on their guests’ plates.

“Martin,” Jon said in earnest after a few bites. “This is delicious.”

Jamie laughed. “You sound as if it’s the first time he’s made it for you!”

“Oh, um-- Well, I--” 

“It’s been a while,” Martin said. “Things have been a bit, er… A bit crazy for us recently. Haven’t had a lot of time to spend in the kitchen.” 

“Oh, no doubt,” Jamie said. “How long had you had this move in the works?” 

“Er,” Martin said. “Not--not very long, but…”

“But it definitely was a plan,” Jon said. He was trying.

Martin continued, trying to control the pitch of his voice. “It was a bit of a shotgun sort of thing, but…” 

“That’s the spirit,” Alistair said. “No fear. Everyone needs to do something this crazy at least once in your life.”

“Oh, it’s so worth it,” Julie said. “You’ll get settled and before you know it, you won’t even remember what it was you were trying to get away from!” 

Jon huffed a laugh and Martin caught his eye. 

“I hope so,” he said. Martin looked away to avoid getting misty.

As Martin prepared dessert, which was no more than a store bought fruit tart and some whipped topping, he stole glimpses of Jamie meandering the perimeter of the room. She inspected their meager decor with a pleasant, fond expression, as if reliving her early days of nuptial bliss. Martin rummaged in a drawer for a clean knife that wasn’t the one terrifying implement left over by Daisy. Too stubborn to simply clean one from dinner, he gave up and used the dastardly thing to begin slicing the tart. 

“You haven’t got any pictures round yet!” Jamie piped up. “I was snooping for wedding photos.”

Just as Martin hurried to say, “We’re still decorating,” Jon embarked on a pointlessly longer explanation. 

“Left them in London. With family. My, ah-- sister is sending them soon, with some other… personal effects.”

“That as well,” Martin added. “We have some. Just haven’t put them up yet.”

“No wedding photos, I’m afraid.” 

“That’s too bad,” she said. “I’ll bet you looked smashing.” 

As Martin kept his attention firmly on slicing the tart with a probable murder weapon, he heard Jon say, “He did.” 

He turned to find Jon leaning against the counter beside him with an unfamiliar smirk, half bathed in mischief and half in what looked like genuine adoration. Martin raised his eyebrows. _We’re doing this, then?_

Jon gave a small, playful shrug and stole the tart away to place on the table, absolutely unreadable. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Jon just initiated a wine-fueled, misguided, and very dangerous game. 

But oh, he was willing to play. 

“It was a very small ordeal,” Martin said, taking care not to meet Jon’s eye just yet. “You know, just the bare necessities.”

“A courthouse sort of thing?” Jamie asked, taking her seat at the table again. 

“Yes,” Jon said. At the very same moment, Martin said, “No.” Jon shot him a mild panicked look.

“Well,” Martin continued. “We, ah… Made everything official at the courthouse. We celebrated… in a friend’s garden, though.” 

“Yes, and… Yes. It was a beautiful day,” Jon said. 

“Well, it rained a bit,” Martin said. 

“It rained a bit,” Jon corroborated. Martin was relishing in the fact that Jon started a game he absolutely did not know how to play. 

“But we don’t have many photos, having not hired a real photographer and all.” 

Just as they settled back to the table, Martin swung to Jon and took aim. “You know, I do have one I could show them.”

Jon froze. “You do?” 

“Yes,” Martin said with a sick grin. “From our honeymoon? It’s my favorite. You know the one.” He reached for his phone.

“I-- Do I?” Jon said, brow knit with concern and confusion. 

Martin made a show of scrolling well back through his photos, though the one he was looking for was only from two weeks ago. 

“Here,” he said, proffering his phone showing a photo he’d snapped of Jon on a walk, staring fondly up into the face of one of the massive highland cows that pastured nearby. 

Jamie gasped. “Oh, did you come _here_ for your honeymoon?”

“It’s how we decided to move here,” he said, risking a smile at Jon. He was looking on incredulous, and if Martin did say so, a little impressed. 

“Ah, those fellas are magnificent, aren’t they?” Alistair said.

“They--they are,” Jon said, attempting to rejoin the conversation. “We were nearly sold on proximity to the cows alone.”

Martin nodded at him in what looked like agreement, though it really meant, _Well done, well done._

Jamie sighed a happy, hopeful sigh and leaned her chin in her hands. “Oh, you two have such a wonderful ride ahead of you. It’ll be so grand.” 

Martin found Jon’s hand under the table and squeezed. “It will be.”

Once again, the evening came to an end before he’d even realized. This time, however, as lovely as it was, he couldn’t quite wait to get the Griers out of the house. They were lovely company, but the charade was a bit exhausting. 

When they left, Martin leaned all of his weight on the arm he shut the door with. He swung his head to Jon, who was leaning his back against the wall beside him. 

“We can’t keep doing this,” Martin said.

“I don’t know,” Jon said, wrapping his arms around himself. “I think it’s a bit fun.” 

Martin scoffed. “That’s funny, I seem to recall you absolutely panicking every time I got a little too creative.” 

“You were so good at it! I couldn’t keep up,” Jon protested. 

“We’re going to have to compare notes if we ever talk to them again, really have our stories straight,” Martin said. “You said your _sister_ was going to send photos from London?”

Jon looked horrified. “I don’t have a sister.”

“I know,” he laughed. “That’s why we need to combine notes! I’m really missing Google docs about now.” 

Jon laughed along and caught Martin’s arm, pulling him forward into a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered. 

“I love you, too,” Martin said, and an odd silence fell as they stared at each other for a moment, Jon’s back still against the wall. “You look like you’re about to apologize for something.”

Jon huffed a laugh. “I was just--just thinking that, well, if I hadn’t been so--”

“Jon,” Martin warned. 

“We could have been… a lot happier a long time ago--”

“Jon, don’t. It doesn’t matter. There are a million things that got in the way, not just you being a bit thick,” he said, rapping him lightly on the side of the head. 

“I know, I know. I just… Okay.” 

Martin nodded. “Time for bed?” 

“Please. The last few days have felt like a lifetime,” Jon said, beginning to yawn. 

“They sort of were,” Martin said. 

He turned off all of the lights and then followed Jon to the bedroom. Soon enough, they were lying side by side, facing each other in the quiet. Martin had shut his eyes, but they popped back open when Jon spoke. 

“You know, I was trying not to, I really didn’t mean to,” he said. “But... do you want to know what they think?”

“Oh god,” Martin said, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m not sure I do.” 

“No, it’s… Well, it’s not funny. But it is a bit, considering.”

“Fine then, go on.”

“They think we eloped to escape our homophobic families.”

Martin’s laugh was high-pitched and shocked. “That’s…” He only just saved himself from saying, _I wish that were the case._ “That is a bit funny.” 

Jon reached out to stroke Martin’s face. “It was, ah… Nice. To pretend,” he said, very quiet. 

Martin smiled and nudged his hand with his face. “Which part, exactly?” 

“Well, just…” Jon sighed. “That, you know. Everything is fine.”

Martin frowned a bit. “It could be.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I hope so.” Jon huddled closer and let his eyes close. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written fic since 2013 when I was in high school I am now an adult and this should get it out of my system for a long time
> 
> hope you enjoyed


End file.
